There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. Nobody could possibly find him now. ‘Suzanne, if I may say, had also not the choice. Will you lend me the money for my ticket to London?” “With all the pleasure in the world,” he answered heartily. I am five-and-thirty, and I have knocked about in the world and tasted the quality of life. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out.
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